A Soldier's Life

Chapter 243: Emperor Maximus Augustus Severus 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

Emperor Maximus Augustus Severus sat in his command tent north of Caranhagan. The recent battle had been won, but not without loss. His thoughts were muddled as he studied the maps on the table. Primus Scorpio stood patiently nearby, waiting for orders, while the duke generals had been told to leave the Emperor alone.

He focused. “How many dead?”

The Primus came to attention. “Two hundred and six legionnaires dead, forty-two crippled. The soldier count is over four thousand, about half that number crippled, though the healers can get most of them fit to rejoin the ranks in time.”

“Mages?” the Emperor asked, reaching into his pocket and removing a faded purple essence. The intellect essence would help him focus for a day or so. His thoughts clarified as the essence dissolved. It tasted salty, and he wondered what creature—or person—it had come from.

“Master Mage Gracilis is burnt.” Severus frowned, prompting Primus Scorpio to elaborate. “First Citizen Aureus retreated on the left flank, and Master Mage Gracilis was forced forward to hold the line. He also lost all his legionnaires and is demanding Aureus be punished,” Scorpio reported. “Three freshly raised mages were also burnt, but their loss will not affect our combat strength.”

Severus tried to remember who First Citizen Aureus was. Once, he could recall every First Citizen in the Empire instantly; now, their names were foggy memories. He reached for minutes to trace the genealogy, and Primus Scorpio respectfully waited through the Emperor’s internal deliberations. Finally, Severus found the thread of memories he had been searching for.

First Citizen Aureus was the great-grandson of his third daughter, Persia. Persia had died over two centuries ago. He vaguely remembered the funeral services.

“Execute First Citizen Aureus for retreating in the face of the enemy. Assign Master Mage Gracilis twenty of my Imperial Legionnaires. And give him this.”

He reached into his belt and searched for the correct essence. Most of the essences he carried were to aid focus. He produced a glossy black sphere—a major channeling essence. His thoughts drifted unbidden to the time he had burnt his own aether channels.

Severus had been assigned to the Agorian Front by his father, the Count of Varvao. The trolls had risen in numbers and posed a tangible threat that spring. Eager to prove himself to the Emperor, he had taken five hundred legionnaires deep into the swamps to take the fight to the trolls.

His men formed a fortification deep in troll territory and repelled wave after wave of the foul creatures. It was his godly void magic that tore the trolls from existence and prevented them from regenerating. His boldness quickly became folly, as the trolls outnumbered the Hound scouts’ reports. Severus pushed himself past his limits, but he didn’t stop—and won the day, breaking the troll advance.

He had been burnt severely in the defense, taking 207 major and apex channeling essences over the next five years to repair the damage and restore his magic. The Emperor—his grandfather—had given him every channeling essence that reached the palace, recognizing his potential.

He released the channeling essence into Scorpio’s outstretched hand. Master Mage Gracilis was a valuable asset, capable of disrupting enemy spells at range, but the black sphere would offer only temporary relief. He would have to push through the pain and continue fighting.

Severus snapped back to the moment—minutes had passed, and his mind had wandered again. He looked up at Scorpio. “What other news?”

“Centurions Cornelius and Sergius are prepared to report when you are ready, Emperor,” the Primus stated obediently.

“Why is Sergius here? Haven’t the orcs invaded the Western Empire?” Severus barked angrily. Too many enemies were trying to take advantage and steal the discovery of the Titan Ruins. He would banish them all from existence.

Primus Scorpio bowed. “You ordered half of his Hounds to Macha. He volunteered to accompany them, and you approved the move.”

That was—correct, he recalled. He slowly nodded. “Send them in, then.”

The two Hound Centurions entered almost immediately. The old Cornelius kept a straight back as he entered. He had lost Hounds faster than they could be replaced. Sergius had gained weight since Severus had last seen him, though he couldn’t recall exactly when that had been. Centurion Cornelius reported first.

Cornelius saluted. “My Emperor. The elves are licking their wounds and have stopped their advance after the last battle. They will wait for reinforcements from Esenhem after losing two of their powerful mages to your hand.”

Severus nodded impatiently. That battle had been two days ago, and he had not channeled that much aether in decades. He had nearly burnt his channels again. Though they had won the day, his Empire could not sustain three war fronts if this became a war of attrition.

“And the Bartiradians?” he asked Cornelius, growing impatient.

“Duke Tiberius is retreating to Macha to defend the excavation site. He lost half his strength defending the walls of Guiracas,” Cornelius reported.

The Emperor slammed the table. Cornelius didn’t flinch, but Sergius did.

Sergius spoke, attempting to redirect the anger. “Varvao has fallen to the orc clerics. Duke Tiberius failed to send reinforcements as promised. I managed to delay the fleet for two days longer than he requested, but I could not hold them back any longer.”

The Emperor turned slowly and met Centurion Sergius’s eyes. The man was trying to deflect his own failure onto Tiberius. Duke Tiberius was a good commander, but he had gotten too embroiled in the political jostling all his progeny were entitled to as they fought for scraps of power.

Black energy crackled around Severus as he studied the map of his Empire collapsing in on itself. He looked south. “What of the goblins?”

Sergius swallowed hard. “They have not left the mountains, but the estimates are in the tens of thousands.” The Emperor’s hard stare forced Sergius to step back. “We have time. The orcs are unlikely to advance from Varvao and will likely focus their efforts south on—”

The map and table vanished in a flash of black lightning, gone in an instant.

“The orcs carved themselves off a quarter of the Telhian Empire, and you are telling me that is a good thing?!” The vehemence in his voice made Sergius step back again to give him space to cool. This was not like him. In his youth, he would have puzzled out the problem and found a way to reclaim the advantage.

There were too many enemies. He needed to eliminate one. He took more mental essences from his belt and put them in his mouth before Primus Scorpio could voice a warning. He needed a clear mind now more than ever—damn the hangover.

It worked. The slow, distracting thoughts were pushed away. He slowly formed a bold plan in his mind. He looked at Cornelius with clear eyes. “Are you sure the elves are waiting on reinforcements?”

“Antonia Segreto’s agents in Esenhem say the ships are being loaded and provisioned now. It will be four days—three if they rush—and then two days to sail to our shores with the assistance of their mages,” Cornelius informed him. The Emperor nodded. The Elves didn’t have many Displacement Mages, so they were unlikely to create and move through portals.

“Good. Get me the Displacement Mages. I will move my army behind the Bartiradians, and we will crush them between us and Duke Tiberius in Macha. Duke Octavian can surge his forces from the excavation site and join with Tiberius.”

Everyone in the room tensed. If the Emperor’s northern army went south, the elves would have a clear path to the capital—or could attack Macha from the north. The Emperor tried to ease their concerns. “We will depart in secret tomorrow night, crush the Bartiradian armies, and return north to confront and punish the elves again. It will be a costly battle, but we will be victorious.”

Cornelius was the only one brave enough to speak. “Are the ruins of the Titans worth risking so much? It may be time for diplomacy, my Emperor.”

“No. The secrets Chancellor Marcel has already recovered are too powerful and cannot be shared,” the Emperor stated firmly, cutting off any attempt to persuade him otherwise.

Cornelius slowly nodded. “At your command. I will prepare the Hounds and get messages to the dukes to mobilize for tomorrow evening.”

The Emperor watched the Hound retreat. Cornelius had served faithfully for four decades but now carried clear doubt in his eyes. After this battle, Severus would have the Truthseekers question him—perhaps replace him, even if he passed the interrogation. Centurion Sergius retreated without a word. He, too, would need to be replaced; his failures were mounting.

Primus Scorpio cleared his throat, drawing the Emperor’s attention. “Six Elfbane blades have been forged and arrived yesterday. Do you want them distributed? The runic smiths can continue forging two every five days unless you wish them to focus on something else.”

The Emperor had two runic master smiths working in secret in the palace’s depths. All the original Elfbane black blades had been destroyed as part of the treaty with Esenhem. Since they had broken the pact, he would punish them.

“No, have them continue working on the Elfbane blades. Give them to the legionnaires you believe can make the best use of them. There will be elves when we face the Bartiradians tomorrow evening. Send in the dukes and mage commanders. I will personally reveal my plan to them.” Primus Scorpio briefly looked alarmed but saluted and left to obey.

The next night, over five thousand legionnaires and fifty thousand soldiers formed on the field outside Caranhagan. The weather mages had drawn in dense, heavy clouds to obscure their movement from the Griffin Riders, and a detachment of dragon riders circled high above the clouds as insurance against discovery.

The Emperor was dressed in his golden runic armor. Dozens of mages moved with him toward the portal site. Seven Displacement Mages had already been teleported far to the south to set an anchor point. Then, twelve more would work in concert to open the portal while the Emperor’s army moved through.

The Emperor marched into the circle of mages and legionnaires with an aura of confidence. He was surprised to see Chancellor Zyna there and paused to address her. “You said you were returning to the capital.” He recognized the runic robes she wore and wondered where she had come by the deep blue Archmagi robes.

“The fate of the Empire is at stake, my Emperor. I will stand with you to defend it.” He met her eyes and nodded. A young red-haired mage stood behind Zyna. Zyna’s daughter? He thought she had perished. Perhaps she had another child. It was so hard to keep track of everyone.

Primus Scorpio stood at his side and updated him. “The Displacement Mages have successfully set the anchor and remain undetected behind the Bartiradian army. The Esenhem Elves have not moved. Duke Octavian and Tiberius are ready to surge and squeeze the Bartiradians between us.”

Did the Primus sound surprised that the plan had worked? It was a brilliant plan, Severus thought.

“Who is replacing Master Mage Gracilis on my left?” the Emperor asked as he surveyed the assembled mages, noting Gracilis’s absence.

“Mage Castile Duval. She is the only mage in your battalion capable of unweaving enemy spells. Gracilis is in too much pain to be reliable on the front lines. That’s Castile there with her legionnaires,” the Primus pointed.

The name struck a chord of familiarity with Severus, but he couldn’t place it. This was not the time to dwell on it. “The only mage? Is Master Mage Naevius not with us?”

“He still holds your right flank. He waits to be sent through in the first wave to secure the portal,” the Primus reported.

“Then why are we waiting here?” the Emperor roared. “For the Telhian Empire! March to victory!”

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Castile stood in the dark, cool night while her legionnaires moved around her on alert. The Emperor had just shouted to move out, and the Imperial Legionnaires were heading into the portal to secure the valley beyond. Blaze fidgeted to her left and whispered something to Mateo. Adrian was on her right.

“Smells like death to me,” he whispered. He knew of the plan to turn on the Emperor, and it was a veiled warning.

“We’ll follow Zyna’s lead,” Castile said with a confidence she didn’t feel. This was a death sentence, and Adrian knew it as well as she did.

“Eryk got off easy,” he mumbled.

Castile winced at the statement. News of Eryk’s death had recently reached them. Benito had already started a pool on when Fortuna’s son would show himself again. Castile knew better, though—his luck had run out. Centurion Cornelius had confirmed to her a few hours ago that the blood sample he had for Eryk didn’t point anywhere. She had chosen not to tell the men. Best to let them hope their companion lived a charmed life. Hopefully, Eryk’s luck had rubbed off on them—they were going to need it.

It was her company’s turn through the portal, and they fell in tightly behind a block of soldiers. Holding this portal open for so long was going to tax the Displacement Mages. Organization and speed were paramount to get everyone through and mustered for the assault. That was one thing the Telhian soldiers were good at, as they moved in unison at a light jog.

Exiting the portal, she spotted the Emperor standing tall in his golden armor, staring off into the distance. They had traveled hundreds of miles, and Neptune’s Tear was bright above them here. The blue ethereal light of the moon gave the emerging army a spectral appearance—like death spreading across the land.

Her job was to protect the left flank of the Emperor from enemy mage spells. She had three other mages with her for offensive support, but only one was part of Antonia’s plan to remove the Emperor.

She hoped High Mage Zyna—or whoever was truly in charge of this coup—would be wise enough to wait until victory was achieved before moving against the Emperor. However, she didn’t care whether the Telhian Empire survived this rebellion; she knew how powerful and vindictive the ancient Emperor was. In the last few days, she had seen him fraying, constantly losing focus.

Cornelius had assured Castile that her blood samples in the Archives under the Imperial Palace would be destroyed within moments of the Emperor’s death reaching them. With Eryk dead, they would have to find another way to destroy the secondary Archives.

Castile took her position and waited for the remainder of the army to arrive so the attack on the rear of the Bartiradian Army could begin.

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Zyna bit her lip and smoothed the rich blue Archmagi robes she wore. The boy who had given her the robes was likely dead. Just a day before she was informed of his death, she had sent him a message—the anchor stone she had gifted to Eryk had received it, but it was likely orcs who had been listening. Centurion Sergius had reported him dead, and Cornelius had confirmed it. However, the truth was they didn’t have Eryk’s blood sample. Still, it was more likely than not that he was dead. The report stated that Hound Eryk Marco had been tasked with shadowing the Caliphate Armada and had stopped communicating.

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Guilt racked her, and she hadn’t had the heart to tell Renna, who stood at her side. It was best not to distract the young mage on the eve of battle.

Zyna stood confidently at the Emperor’s side and watched the endless, impressive stream of soldiers and legionnaires pour from the portal as the Displacement Mages strained to keep it open. The Emperor’s plan would actually be brilliant—if it worked. That was assuming the Elves didn’t move on Caranhagan and the Bartiradians failed to detect them before the attack. The Displacement Mages would need a day or two to recover before they could send the army back.

The Emperor turned to Zyna. “I am glad you are joining us. This will be my greatest victory.” He appeared surprisingly lucid and focused. Zyna nodded and hoped he held it together long enough to win the day.

She began mentally inventorying the mages around the Emperor. Two were in on the plot, and the other five would have to perish with him if she chose to act. Renna was unaware of the plan but posed no threat to it.

The night burned away into dawn as the army slowly and successfully arrived.

With the army assembled, the portal collapsed along with the exhausted Displacement Mages. The Emperor looked over his forces and moved to the front, yelling with an aetherically enhanced voice about glory and becoming legends. When his speech ended, the men cheered and moved forward, eager to win glory for the Empire.

A few miles into the march, the first Griffin Rider spotted them. Soon, the skies swarmed with them, circling like vultures over a kill. Zyna cast small fire dragons into the sky to deal with the threat. It didn’t take much—just a few bursts to burn enough feathers for the beasts to spiral to the ground. After two were brought down, the rest of the Griffin Riders retreated.

But the element of surprise was lost. It was going to be a bloody engagement.

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Cornelius rested on a rock high above the valley from which the army was marching. A bitter taste was in his mouth, and the sugar cane stalk he chewed couldn’t clear it. Years of planning had come to this—and it was not the opportune time. They still needed the Emperor’s void power as both deterrent and weapon. But the stubborn old Emperor wouldn’t step down while the Empire was eating itself alive from within, so there was no other choice.

Centurion Sergius came and stood beside him. The vile man had been placed in his position for his blood, not his competence, and Cornelius hated him.

“My Hounds reported the west is clear. Just two Rangers, and they’re both dead—didn’t raise a warning.” The smugness in his voice made Cornelius’ skin itch.

“Good. We eliminated seven Rangers to the north and west. The Bartiradians are not yet aware we’ve arrived,” Cornelius replied, matching his counterpart’s tone.

Sergius moved a little too close, and Cornelius stepped aside to give him room to watch the assembly below. A few moments passed before Sergius spoke again. The bone etchings tingled in Cornelius’ arms—Sergius was using his spell form to detect lies. He wanted to know something, and Cornelius was ready.

“The Archives were attacked, and my son is dead.”

Cornelius stepped further back and faced Sergius, his mind racing, his expression showing genuine shock. “The Bartiradians?” he asked, confused.

Sergius shook his head sadly, though poorly masking the anger beneath. “Unlikely. Four Hounds were killed, but of the surviving four, none saw the assailants. The vault room was burned—all samples destroyed. Do you know who might have been responsible?”

Cornelius was stunned. Was this Antonia’s hand? He thought he knew everything, but wouldn’t put it past the cunning woman to keep a few cards hidden. The itching in his arms increased.

“No,” he replied flatly, mind racing with possibilities. “Has a necromancer questioned the dead? What about Master Mage Othello?” Othello could peer into the past and replay events. “Has the Emperor been informed?” Cornelius added.

Centurion Sergius looked disappointed by Cornelius’ response. “I want answers before I tell the Emperor what has happened. Only three bodies were recoverable for necromancers to question. One said someone with a cat familiar attacked the Archives. I have requested Master Mage Othello make the journey, but I wanted more answers first.” Sergius studied him carefully.

“A cat? A shapeshifter? A summoner?” Cornelius muttered, trying to piece it together. If this wasn’t Antonia, were there other players he didn’t know about? More likely, Antonia had a backup for Eryk she hadn’t told him about. Sergius stepped closer as Cornelius’ mind churned.

“No,” Sergius said hotly.

Cornelius felt a heavy pressure seize his mind, paralyzing his body. Sergius’ dagger was out and in his chest in a blink. He lowered Cornelius’ body behind a boulder.

“It is a strong poison, my friend. It will take time to kill, but you will feel no pain. The necromancers will get the answers I want from your corpse. Rest assured, my Hounds will take care of Antonia Segreto if the Emperor dies today.”

Cornelius’ muscles were locked— he couldn’t move. Sergius stood over him, looking him in the eyes.

“Don’t look surprised. Duke Octavian told me of your plot to place him on the Emperor’s seat. I agree— it is time for new guidance in the Empire. But it will not be Antonia or you guiding it from the shadows. It will be me. And if I find out you killed my son, know this: your soul will be tortured for all eternity.”

Hound Hercule approached, and Sergius turned to him. “Take his head for the necromancer, but I want to be there when his spirit is questioned.”

A Griffin Rider circled high above in the gray dawn light as Cornelius’ life slipped away. He had always wondered what it would be like to fly on the back of a griffin. Hound Hercule nodded, knelt, and cut off Cornelius’ head while he was still conscious.

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The day had been bloody, but the Telhians were victorious. The Emperor watched from a distance as the armies clashed in the waning battle. He had used a great deal of aether today and had led three assaults on the Bartiradian lines. The first had been a brutal massacre of the baggage train and camp followers, followed by a second assault on the organized Bartiradian army.

Duke Tiberius and Duke Octavian had been slow to close the trap, but eventually, they had. The third assault had left the Bartiradians trapped between the three armies, with nowhere to retreat. Spells of lightning, fire, and ice flashed and rolled across the field, indiscriminate in their destruction. Bodies still screamed on the field—for healing, or simply for the pain to end.

One of his duke generals rode up. “Emperor, a detachment of the Bartiradians is breaking east. They’ll escape the encirclement.”

The Emperor turned to the mage on his right.

The mage turned his focus inward and sent out an all-seeing eye. A moment later, he said, “About fifteen hundred men, two miles east. Looks like their surviving mages and officers.”

Zyna offered unwanted advice. “The day is won. Most of our mages are spent. We should move north and send soldiers back to Caranhagan before the Elves move.”

“No. We’ll kill every Bartiradian we can today, so we don’t have to deal with them in the future,” the Emperor said sternly, the wildness of battle adrenaline still in his eyes. He turned to another mage. “Unpack the collectors and start harvesting the dead before it’s too late. Duke Octavian and Duke Tiberius can clean up here—have them send their best legionaries in support. I will personally lead a detachment to handle the escaping Bartiradians.”

Twenty minutes later, the Emperor led eight hundred mounted legionnaires and fourteen mages east. He was pleased to note that Zyna was among them, and the mages were actively discussing how much aether they had left. Updates came frequently: only a hundred of the fleeing Bartiradians were mounted, and they had fewer than ten mages.

How many mages had his own army lost today? He remembered the reports coming in during the battle, but he couldn’t afford to split his focus—not while sending void lightning a quarter mile into the enemy.

As they caught up to the fleeing force, his cavalry slowed.

“They’re forming a defensive line,” the mage to his left announced.

The Emperor nodded, slowing along with the mounted legionnaires around him. Half a mile ahead, the Bartiradians were rapidly digging pits to break the cavalry charge. Sandy dirt flew into the air as they scrambled to prepare some kind of defense. Severus signaled a halt. Best to soften them up first.

The Emperor rode forward and scanned the enemy—mostly humans, with a few elves and dwarves among them. They noticed his golden armor, and he could feel their fear even from a distance. They had likely seen him wreak destruction during the battle earlier with his void lightning.

At this extreme range, there were only a handful of mages in all of Desia who could extend their offensive spells. The Emperor dismounted, and the others followed his lead. He drew on his aether core, weaving the spell forms, layer after layer, over the span of heartbeats. He frowned—he’d made an error and had to start again. The second time, he succeeded. Black lightning danced between his hands, fed from his aether core, and nearby mounts stamped nervously at the unnatural void magic forming.

Emperor Maximus Augustus Severus released the spell. A black web of lightning raced across the distance, spreading out in a wave of destruction. Some of the lightning struck the ground, leaving deep holes; some shot into the sky, leaving afterimages and thunderclaps for the observers—but over half of the black tendrils reached the Bartiradians. Screams erupted as men suddenly sported holes in their bodies, and the lightning raced through their ranks. He fed the spell forms until his aether ran dangerously low and his channels edged closer to burning.

Breathing heavily from the day’s expenditure, he smiled. “At least a quarter dead.” He looked to his mages. “Finish them.”

Zyna nodded, a frown on her face, and began layering her spell forms, creating a twisting, growing fire. As the dragon of fire formed, the legionnaires prepared to charge behind it. The fire dragon shot into the sky—then came back down, engulfing Master Mage Naevius in an inferno.

The Emperor was confused for a moment as his mind processed the screams of the burning mage. Then, his Imperial legionnaires were suddenly assaulted by other legionnaires. Chaos reigned, and confusion clouded the Emperor’s mind. Was a powerful mind mage controlling his men?

A lance of fire shot toward his chest from Zyna’s hands. His aetheric shield flashed in defense, draining his amulet.

Severus reached for aether to form a void shield as Primus Scorpio shouted, “Protect the Emperor from the traitors!”

His void shield formed—but the weave dissolved as another blast of fire slammed into his armor. The runic etchings flared in defense, but the armor still heated, burning him inside.

Zyna was screaming orders to the other mages as she pulled back. Primus Scorpio dismounted and helped his Emperor to his feet.

“We need to run. Some of the mages have betrayed you. The Imperial legionnaires outnumber them, but they’re targeting your loyal mages.”

He wasn’t going to run.

He drew his blade and located the mage interfering with his void magic. The mithril blade reflected sunlight as lightning, fire, and explosions erupted across the battlefield—men struggling to tell friend from foe.

The Emperor roared in fury and charged the mage, who was guarded by lesser legionnaires. It had been years since he wielded the ancient blade, but he would put it to use today.

Scorpio gave up trying to make his Emperor flee and instead ordered the loyal legionnaires to defend him as Severus sought vengeance for the betrayal.

The Emperor closed in on the sweating mage. Her legionnaires moved to protect her, but he was undeterred. The ground erupted in a fiery blast around him, but his armor held, keeping him upright as he advanced—ready to deliver justice.

Zyna would be next.

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Castile watched as the Emperor walked toward her. They had tried—and failed. Imperial Legionnaires had sealed off Zyna and the other conspiratorial mages, their runic armor dulling the magical attacks. Only seven men remained from her company, guarding her from the Emperor’s wrath.

Konstantin had been loaned to the Hounds to scout for the army. Malory and Donte had fallen in the battle earlier that day. Firth and Linus had been too injured to ride and hadn’t joined this fight. That was a blessing—Firth would have fallen to Adrian’s blade when the betrayal began. Adrian was keeping an eye on Wylie, who was currently stunned by the chaos. If they could avoid killing a comrade, all the better.

Fire and earth erupted around the Emperor as Zyna tried to slow him, but she had her own problems. The Imperial Legionnaires outnumbered them two to one. Zyna diverted her attention briefly to send out a shadow chain, opening the defense of one of the legionnaires so Benito could drive his spear under the man’s chin.

Kolm fell to his knees to her left, his leg buckling from a powerful low blow. Blaze, next to her, muttered to no one in particular, “Any chance you have a few arrows?” He had been deadly with his shots—striking legionnaires in the neck through gaps in their armor—but was down to just a few.

Adrian stepped forward to face the Emperor, rather than let him get close to Castile. The Emperor was sloppy with his blade, but faster and stronger than Adrian. Adrian’s runic sword, once Delmar’s, scratched the golden armor—but it didn’t matter. The Emperor grabbed his wrist and drove the mithril weapon into Adrian’s abdomen.

Time slowed for Castile as Adrian punched the Emperor repeatedly in the face with his free hand. If they survived this, it would have been a funny story—punching the Emperor of the Telhian Empire in the face. But she already knew that time was not likely to come.

The Emperor jerked the blade free and kicked Adrian away with remarkable agility for someone wearing heavy golden armor. Adrian clutched at his stomach as he tumbled. He reached for a lesser potion, but Castile knew the wound was too broad and deep. Blood poured from his mouth as he struggled to drink, his lungs likely destroyed. She had no time to watch her loyal friend die—she was too busy preventing the Emperor from casting void magic. He was coming for her next.

To her right, Kolm’s helm was crushed by a heavy blade. The ground suddenly softened beneath every combatant in front of her—causing them, including the Emperor, to sink several inches. His advance was paused. Then, just as suddenly, the soft earth hardened again.

A young, familiar red-haired mage—heaving for breath a short distance behind Zyna—drew Castile’s attention. She hadn’t known Renna was part of the conspiracy. Her intervention couldn’t have come at a better time. Benito and Mateo, out of range of the spell, darted among the immobilized Imperial Legionnaires, whose feet were trapped in hardened earth and unable to turn.

A wave of fire swept across two dozen more Imperial Legionnaires, cooking them inside their armor and forcing them to fall back. Primus Scorpio was screaming for the others to kill her. They knew Castile was the one holding back the Emperor’s void magic.

The Emperor was using his mithril blade to free his feet.

A thunder of hooves sounded in the distance. Castile turned to see Duke Octavian leading a cavalry charge, fifty legionnaires behind him—all bearing his house crest instead of the sigil of the Legion of the Lion. It was truly over, then.

The Emperor looked relieved, seeing his son rush to his aid. But when the charge reached them, Octavian’s men targeted the Imperial Legionnaires—not the traitors. The Emperor roared in rage, his voice magnified by the aetheric weave in his armor.

Primus Scorpio had freed his legs, leaving his boots cemented in the hardened earth. Mateo and Benito moved to shield Castile. After four quick exchanges, Benito was bleeding from a neck wound, and Mateo’s sword arm had been cut to the bone through his vambrace.

Castile’s concentration shifted fully to the Primus, her aetheric shadow chains trying to bind him. Her aether was dangerously low now. Her focus was no longer on the Emperor.

Her gaze flicked to Adrian’s vacant eyes. It wouldn’t be long before she joined him.

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The traitorous mage had shifted her attention away from him—probably spent. Severus turned and immediately formed and released void lightning at Zyna. Her aetheric shield flared as it tried to stop the assault but quickly failed. Her blue robes scorched and sizzled as the void lightning cracked against the powerful artifact, uselessly. He continued his assault, ignoring the burn that told him he was past his aetheric limits. He could recover from being burnt—he had done it before.

Finally, an arc of the random black lightning darted into Zyna’s unprotected face. A hole appeared through her eye and out the back of her head. She slowly collapsed to the ground. The young red-haired mage who had been standing behind her froze in shock. Her time would come too, Severus swore.

He looked around the battlefield, which had been slowly turning in favor of the traitors. That would end now that he had his void magic back.

How had that malicious son of his convinced so many of his people to support him? He would find out soon. He found Octavian on the perimeter of the battle and prepared to end him next. He ignored the burning in his body and channeled aether—and nothing. He turned sharply as his spell forms dissolved again. So the mage wasn’t finished. Well, he wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving her alive again.

He watched as a one-handed legionnaire drove a sword through Scorpio’s eye while shadow chains bound the Primus in place. The traitorous mage was blocking his aether shaping once again.

A shout from his right alerted him—the Bartiradians were forming a line to charge. Dozens of men hesitated, unsure of what to do. The traitors pulled back first but didn’t retreat. They were placing the Emperor and his loyal men between themselves and the Bartiradians.

There was a call from some of his Imperial Legionnaires to gather horses. An unfamiliar legionnaire forced reins into his hands. “Emperor, ride to safety. We will guard your retreat.”

He pulled his aching body into the saddle, his aether channels burning. Nine other legionnaires mounted alongside him. A hundred of his loyal men still stood. The Emperor turned to burn the faces of the traitors into his memory.

An arrow pierced the eye slit of his helm.

His head jerked back as he tried to register what had just happened. The arrow jutted from his helm as he turned his head in confusion. Silence seemed to fall across the field as the Emperor slowly slid from his horse and hit the ground.

The Imperial Legionnaires circled to defend their fallen Emperor. Some called for healing mages or potions—but no loyal mages remained, and all the potions had been used.

Octavian pulled the other legionnaires back from the onrushing Bartiradians. They would finish the job.

But not all the legionnaires and remaining mages retreated with Octavian. Castile and her five surviving legionnaires moved into the dense woodlands.

Wylie remained numb, in shock at what had just happened. Blaze was still in disbelief that he had just killed the Emperor. Lirkin limped, severely bloodied. Benito, his neck wound wrapped, hobbled forward with help from Mateo, whose right arm was shattered and unusable. In his good hand, Mateo carried Primus Scorpio’s runic weapon—with a grin on his face.

END OF BOOK FOUR

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